


Looks So Easy

by SingingShantiesAllTheWay



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Healing Sex, Oral Sex, Past Sexual Abuse, Prostitution, Queerplatonic Relationships, Recovery, Service Top, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24815101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingingShantiesAllTheWay/pseuds/SingingShantiesAllTheWay
Summary: Lots of watching on the job eventually evolves into curiosity about the doing.
Relationships: Sasha Racket & Oscar Wilde, Sasha Racket/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51
Collections: "Working on the Name" Bar and Brothel





	Looks So Easy

**Author's Note:**

> A server-specific AU's cherry has been popped, so I figure I should share the bit I wrote that comes (forgive the pun) chronologically just before the first story that was posted. Mine isn't a gift for anyone except the server as a whole - I'm not as generous as vogelwrites. ;) That, or dreadful at recalling significant dates.
> 
> The AU, briefly: 18mumblemumble Paris, a brothel in which Wilde is one of the most profitable and popular prostitutes; Sasha is a bodyguard and bouncer. The two have developed a friendship sufficient that Sasha has given him her story and her secrets and her trust.
> 
> This will certainly not be everybody's cup of tea, understandably.

"You make it look so easy."

Entirely naked, fucked-out and lazy, Wilde turned his head on his pillow to look at Sasha, startled. His bouncer for the evening, she had already escorted his last john to the door, and generally that was the last Wilde saw of her if he didn't have another client lined up. Sasha didn't tend to linger.

"-what?" Not his wittiest repartée, to be sure, but Wilde’s brain was still only half-engaged, focused for the most part on post-coital recovery.

Sasha fidgeted, looked away.

"Like- _touchin’_ , right? Bein' touched. You make it look, like, _easy_."

He blinked.

"It ...is, for me? I know it isn’t for you, and that’s... fine, there’s nothing strange or unusual about it. Why, ah- why do you mention it?”

Sasha was deathly pale, but Wilde noted the determined set of her jaw.

Wilde leaned up, braced on his elbows against the mattress and rumpled sheets. A quiet little warning bell was softly chiming in his mind. 

"Tell me," he said softly. "Tell me, Sasha?"

She hesitated. Glanced up at him, away again. Seemed about to speak-

A spill of laughter from outside on the stairs made Sasha flinch. The rooms were not soundproofed, and Wilde watched her resolve break.

He had a suspicion - a strong one, nearly a certainty - where she was going. Where she _needed_ to go. Hers was a familiar hesitancy, for all that, if he was correct, she’d dealt with it exactly opposite his own path.

Wilde drew in a breath, let it out through his nose, nodded. He sat up, folding his legs in front of him.

“Right.”

This hurt, it always did, and it always left him feeling empty for _days_ , but Sasha - 

Sasha was one of his. Sasha was worth it. Sasha _deserved_ it.

Wilde closed his eyes, focused, and with a tiny whine to belie the effort, scratched and scrabbled at the metaphorical edges of his soul, scraping together enough power to will his rooms into _silence_.

Not for them.

For anyone not with them.

This conversation would _not_ be overheard. Sasha would feel _safe_ or he would die trying.

Sasha knew what he’d done, was staring at him open-mouthed when Wilde gasped and opened his eyes, clutching his chest as though to hold his hammering heart inside it.

“Y’didn’t- Wilde, y’didn’t have t’do that- I mean, I wasn’t - I just-”

He shook his head, pointed at the dressing table where a carafe of water waited, and Sasha, correctly guessing, all but sprinted to pour him a glass and bring it over. She sat at the edge of the bed while he drank. Something about the magic - limited though it was - _parched_ him, ruined Wilde’s voice as though he’d been screaming it into the universe to demand its compliance.

“Been thinkin’ about this for a while,” Sasha said quietly. "Talkin' to you, I mean." She didn’t look at him, and Wilde didn’t look away. “I used to- I used t’ try _not_ to, right? To. To _remember._ _Like_ \- it _happened_ , but it’s _done with_ , it’s over and he’s dead and it’ll never happen again.”

The warning bell chimed again, a little louder, a little clearer, and Wilde's heart skipped a beat in pained sympathy. Yes. This was indeed going where he had assumed.

Sasha picked at a thumbnail, something to do with her hands while she avoided looking at Wilde.

“Barrett used to- touch me,” she finally said, her voice completely flat. Wilde recognised the hollow tone: _float above it stay empty don’t feel._ Gods knew it had been his for years. Still _was_ sometimes, on bad days.

Wilde sipped his water and waited. He’d suspected, for _so long_ he’d suspected, he _knew_ what it looked like, what it sounded like, he _knew_ but never would have asked, not for love nor money nor salvation.

But Sasha was _offering_. He owed her the silence to fill if and as she chose.

“It was - if I _disappointed_ him,” Sasha finally continued. “He never. I mean it was just - It wasn’t. Like. He never-”

She stopped, a spasm of frustration and _hurt_ briefly contorting her face, waved a hand with her lower lip trapped between her teeth. Wilde thought he saw blood there.

“ _Fucked_ you?” A crude word for a cruel man, but Wilde softened it, gentled it into bearability. Sasha stiffened, then nodded.

“Yeah. Just. ...yeah.”

Sasha sucked in a deep breath and let it out.

“But like - you- you had it- it was _so much worse_ for you but you, like, you got-”

Sasha dragged the back of her hand over her chin; it came away smeared with red. She stared down at it and whispered, “-you’re _better_. Now. You can-”

Sasha looked up at him, and Wilde caught his breath at how _lost_ she looked. “Does it ever go away?” Sasha swallowed and kept going before he could answer. “Does it ever- do you ever _stop feeling it_?”

“Yes,” Wilde answered simply. “Not all the time. But more and more. I had to learn that it doesn’t have to hurt. I had help. I had... people I trust. I let them touch me, I let them _teach_ me. I let them prove to me that the _misery_ and the shame isn’t all there is.”

Wilde turned to slide his empty glass onto the bedside table, then folded his hands carefully in his lap and watched Sasha’s face, and waited.

“It’s all I can feel,” Sasha replied after a prolonged pause. “When I watch you, um. _Working_ . I get _curious_ but- but it‘s _all I can feel_. Is his- his hands- I don’t -”

Sasha set her jaw.

“I don’t wanna feel it anymore. You- you’re _good_ at this, you’re- I mean.”

“I do get paid for it, darling,” Wilde said drily, and Sasha grinned weakly.

Ghost-pale but determined, she whispered, “...help me?”

Unhesitatingly, Wilde gave her a crooked half-smile and held out his hand.

Sasha stood up and fought her way out of her heavy jacket, dropping it on the floor; her boots were next, each falling with a solid _thunk_ to the floor. She skinned out of her shirt a moment later.

She had... _so_ many scars, Wilde realised. He had assumed she had her fair share - they all did - but Sasha was _covered_ in them. They formed a roadmap over her skin, a visual history of her life, and the story was a grim one.

Sasha’s hands were hovering over the fastenings of her trousers, and they were trembling.

“I can, if you’d rather,” Wilde told her gently, but she shook her head swiftly, almost violently.

“ _No_ .” Sasha’s voice was thick and tight. “No, I- _he_ used to. I can’t-”

She held her breath and made as quick work as possible of the buttons, and shoved the trousers down over her hips and to the floor. Wilde leaned back again amongst the rumpled sheets and disordered pillows, and looked at her expectantly.

After a hesitation, Sasha clambered up onto the bed and lay down beside him.

She was _shaking_ , but Sasha met his gaze fearlessly.

“Are you certain?”

Sasha nodded. Abruptly, she leaned over and with little grace and absolutely no warning kissed him, and Wilde brought his hands up to gently cup her face.

“Let me show you,” he whispered, and Sasha nodded again. Wilde tipped his head just a bit to the side, gently pressed his mouth to hers, sent an easy breath unfurling against her mouth; followed it with his tongue, just the barest flicker of it between the parting of her lips, nothing more. He felt, after a moment, a bit of the tension ease from the rigid muscles of her neck, and smiled against her mouth.

“You see?”

Sasha exhaled against his lips.

“Wot, um- do I do?”

“You?” Wilde smoothed a thumb over Sasha’s cheek, leaned to press another gentle kiss to her mouth. “Nothing whatsoever, darling, except let me prove to you it doesn’t have to hurt.”

He let go of her face and rolled to his belly, gathering up every pillow he could reach.

“Sit up,” Wilde told her, “lie on your back,” and he stuffed the cluster of cushions behind her when Sasha, giving him a quizzical look, complied. “There. Now you can see.”

Moving slowly, letting Sasha _see_ him, letting her watch him (and she _was_ watching him, sharply and with her heart in her throat) as he went, Wilde slid down the bed. Tension thrummed through her like ungrounded electricity - Wilde could feel it, could still feel her trembling anywhere he touched.

“Spread your legs?”

The noise Sasha made broke his heart.

“Only if you want it, Sasha.” Wilde leaned to kiss her knee, a soft gesture that trailed the loose ends of his hair over her skin (and there were so many scars here, too, jagged and uneven or slim and precise; patches and stripes of badly-healed skin anywhere he looked or touched). “I won’t hurt you, ever. And I’ll make damn sure nobody else does either.”

He hadn’t intended that part to slip out.

Wilde heard, rather than saw, Sasha’s nod, the rustle of her short hair against a slippery pillowcase, and slipped down to the end of the bed to make room for her as she slid her legs apart.

Gently, he rested a hand on her ankle, just the touch, nothing more.

“All right, Sasha?”

Again, she nodded, staring at him between half-lowered lashes, still thrumming with tension, but determined.

“Keep watching. Tell me if I need to stop, _and I will stop_.”

Every few inches, as he slowly moved up between her legs, Wilde left a kiss on one or the other, tracing scars with his lips or tongue. When he reached her knees, Wilde lifted his head, propped it against his fist, elbow in the mattress, and studied her face for a long moment.

“All right, Sasha?” he asked her again.

She nodded a little too quickly this time; he lofted a disbelieving eyebrow and Sasha swallowed.

“Alright,” she said hoarsely. “Promise.”

“I won’t hurt you,” Wilde reminded her. He wriggled closer, close enough that he could with little effort, if he wished to, lay an intimate kiss to her sex.

Not yet. Too soon for her, he knew. 

Sasha stared down at him, stubbornness and dread equally visible in her expression.

“ _I won’t hurt you_ ,” Wilde whispered. “I know- I can _guess_ \- what he did. So. Nothing inside you. I can let you make sure of it.”

He brought his hands lightly up to her knees and gently encouraged her to bend them upward; when she obeyed, he slipped his arms beneath them, trailed his hands along the outside of her thighs, up over her hips, and offered them to her, palms up. “Hold my hands.”

Sasha drew in a long breath.

She let it out.

She stretched forward and laid her hands against his, palm to palm.

Wilde laced their fingers together, gave her an encouraging smile.

“This will be,” he said, and kissed her thigh, “ _slow_. And the instant you need me to stop, _I will stop_.”

Sasha squeezed his hand. Wilde gave her an encouraging smile. “Ready?” he whispered.

“...yes.” Barely any sound, but Sasha’s lips formed the word.

Wilde dipped his head to breathe a long, warm exhalation against her sex, and Sasha _gasped_. “All right, Sasha?” he asked again, pitching his voice (perhaps a bit unfairly) so that she could _feel_ it, and heard her shocked, tight “ _...alright-_ ”. He smiled.

Sasha didn’t make a noise when Wilde finally succumbed to his earlier temptation and pressed an ironically chaste kiss to her sex. Instead, she went rigid, gripping his hands tightly enough that he could feel her nails, blunt as they were, digging into his skin.

“Alright,” she whispered when he drew back, before Wilde could ask. Her hands relaxed enough that she was no longer in danger of drawing blood.

Wilde squeezed her hands gently. He could feel Sasha’s thighs still tight, still tense with her shock; he turned his head to kiss one, blew a soft breath there, then nuzzled his cheek against her folds, and Sasha gasped again.

He was surprised by how _delicate_ she was between her thighs. There was nothing else delicate about Sasha Racket - she was a woman who seemed scoured clean of anything extraneous, anything soft, all sharp angles and deadly competence. But as Sasha caught her breath (and _gods_ if just a kiss did that to her, how would she respond to more...?), Wilde let himself take in the sight of her, and marveled at how nearly fragile she seemed.

Sasha finally whispered, “Alright, Wilde,” and he kissed her again, and did not draw back this time when she stiffened. Gently, gradually, allowing her to feel and _know_ explicitly what he was doing, giving her every chance to object, Wilde slid his tongue up along her folds, parting skin to taste her, to open the way to her clit.

The noise she made was _exquisite_. Wilde squeezed her hands again and, encouraged by the reciprocal tightening of her fingers, kept going.

He didn’t focus anywhere yet, instead restraining himself to a gradual and leisurely exploration that would grant Sasha time, breathing room, a chance to process and settle into the experience, ease out of her fear into - Wilde hoped - enjoyment.

He was certainly enjoying _her_ , delighting in her reactions, memorising how Sasha moved, the tiny sounds she made, noting what seemed to be particularly effective, discarding what seemed to bother her: a glide of his tongue upward, tracing vulva to either side, made her whimper, but it was a sound of pleasure, so Wilde did it again and was rewarded with the same sound and a sigh to come after. A slow and lingering lick of her clitoris made Sasha tighten her grip on his hands almost painfully, and the muscles in her thighs briefly quivered.

Parting her lips with his tongue again elicited the tiniest moan, and when he traced her opening she let her knees fall to the sides, wordlessly but clearly granting him access. Wilde was careful not to penetrate, only to meticulously lave her entrance with a gentle tongue, and took a certain pride in the gradual loosening of Sasha’s tense body in response to his attention.

He looked up after a few minutes of this, smiled crookedly at the tiny shift of Sasha’s hips when she unthinkingly chased his mouth.

“All right, Sasha?”

Her eyes were unfocused and dark, pupils blown wide; her mouth was open a little, and a flush stained her skin faintly pink from her ears to her breasts. Wilde found her lovely.

Not beautiful, not in the way most considered beauty - Sasha was too _real_ for that, too fundamentally part of the grim and violent world in which they lived. But _lovely_ in the same way as a knife catching the light, or the precise slash of a clean wound. A swift and vicious smile.

Sasha nodded and swallowed, and her fingers curled around his.

“Al- alright, Wilde,” she managed.

This time, when he licked a slow, warm stripe from her entrance to her clitoris, he found it firm, easy to tease from its hood, easy to make Sasha’s hips lift from the mattress with the careful and skillful circling of his tongue. The sounds she was making were now almost universally ones of pleasure.

Wilde dipped his tongue between her folds again, dragged it up to flatten over her clit with broader pressure, shifted to take it between his lips with gentle but unrelenting suction, and Sasha’s whimper became an abrupt cry, cut off when she let go of his hand and bit down on her wrist.

He let go, lifted his head just a little to murmur, “...all right, Sasha?”

She glared at him and arched her hips, and Wilde _laughed_ , quietly delighted.

“Don’t be quiet,” he said. “No-one will hear but me. And I _adore it_ , darling.”

He bent his head to resume precisely where he’d left off, and this time Sasha’s moan was deliciously loud and uncontained.

Wilde settled into a pattern, something predictable enough for Sasha’s comfort, variable enough to let sensation build, gradual enough to let her experience the swelling intensity without hurry. When Sasha let go of one of his hands to tangle her fingers in his hair, something warm pooled against his heart; when she shifted to drape one leg over his shoulder, her heel digging into his back, the pooling warmth spread.

It wasn’t going to take her long. Wilde could feel the trembling in Sasha’s thighs, heard as her breathing grew shallower and more erratic. The movements of her hips were growing less and less restrained.

“What-” Sasha gasped, and Wilde, anticipating the question, lifted his head and said simply, “You’ll like it. Trust me. Don’t hold back.”

He lowered his head again, tongued briefly against her entrance, then focused his attention on Sasha’s clitoris. He had gathered an excellent idea, by this point, of what she _liked_ , and what Sasha _liked_ was exactly this rapid, flickering dart of his tongue-tip over it: hot and wet and continuous.

Sasha’s hand fisted tightly in Wilde’s hair; her tiny, panting moans swelled to a whine and then a hoarse, keening cry. Wilde laced their fingers together with his other hand, giving her something else to grip, and unrelentingly chased her orgasm for her, pushing pushing _pushing_ until finally her back arched, the cry became a _scream_ , and Sasha came entirely apart under Wilde’s clever, clever tongue.

Wilde rested his head against her thigh while Sasha rode her pleasure out, quietly marveling at the movement of lean muscle beneath scarred skin, at her hoarsely panting breaths, at the messy halo of raggedly-cut hair across his pillows, at the strength of her hands where she gripped him, even with one finger gone.

Sasha in the throes of ecstasy was magnificent.

“Thank you,” Wilde murmured to her when her breathing had evened out, when her hands had relaxed, uncurled, and fallen away, when he had slithered up from between her thighs to lie next to her instead.

Sasha half-turned her head to look at him, all blown pupils and vaguely stunned expression that only looked more confused, now.

He gave her a lopsided smile.

“For trusting me,” Wilde explained, and reached to tug a wrinkled, tangled sheet up over Sasha’s bare and sweat-sheened body. “Rest a bit, darling. That will have taken it out of you. My turn to watch your back.”

He was gratified when she didn’t argue: just nodded once, closed her eyes, and burrowed down into the pillows to fall almost immediately to sleep.

While he listened to her softening breath, Wilde reflected, not for the first time, on how dreadfully happy he was that Barrett Racket was dead.


End file.
